The Life of Thomas Hardy
periences with, interviewers. Still, there are many visitors. Miss Amy Lowell has been here, and Mr. Clement Shorter, and Mr. Dudley Field Malone, an American—who is Mr. Malone?"
Wessie tries so furiously to eat wood out of the fireplace that he is at length led away, struggling, whining.
The room is dim, furnished plainly, low-ceiled. There is a portrait of Shelley on the wall.
Meanwhile Hardy has come down. He is small, somewhat stooped; grave and kindly in manner. Deep-set brooding eyes look out from a framework of wrinkled parchment. They look out dispassionately; yet they dominate.
He wears a fuzzy sweater beneath a thick grey-green suit.
"People at last seem to be discovering the curious charms of this part of the country. Even on dull days like this, I daresay, one can love it."
His voice is even, vibrant, slightly high-pitched, with a strange questioning inflection to each cadence. It makes everything he chooses to say seem somehow tentative, unfinal.
"Granville Barker and his wife are thinking of settling around here. The lovely dignity of the countryside leaves its photograph on the people, you know. I've become convinced that climate really makes character. I'm sure your terrible, harsh West Virginia mountain country is really responsible for the overwhelming multiplied tragedy which you call your 'poor white' population. America is a tragic country; its tragedy is reflected in the countenances and manners of even the visitors who pass through England. But we get only vague inklings of the basis of
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